“What the hell?” My voice is hoarse. The sound bounces off the walls and is swallowed up by the oppressive quiet.
I am suddenly and urgently aware that I need water. My throat is scratchy and my head throbs.
The panic is back, clawing its way up my spine and seeping into my chest. I try to shake it off, try to steady my breathing, but the helplessness gnaws at me.
Overwhelmed by how powerless I am, I suck in a shaky breath and force myself to think. Crying won’t help. Panic won’t help. Whatever this is, I’m going to need my head clear.
“Let me go!” I shout, my voice raw as it ricochets off the walls and comes back wrong, thinner, almost distorted.
The sound dies too quickly.
“Do you hear me?” I try again. “Let me go, you sick?—”
Nothing.
The silence presses in heavily, unrelenting, and for the first time since I woke up, fear really gets its teeth into me. No footsteps. No voices. No response at all.
Has someone left me here to die?
My chest tightens despite my effort to stay calm, and this time I don’t fight the tears when they come. They slide down my temples and disappear into my hair as I stare up at the ceiling, restrained and alone, with no idea where I am or how long I’ve been here.
I don’t know how much time passes. Minutes blur into something longer, until my throat aches and my body feels heavy with exhaustion.
And then footsteps break the silence.
They’re slow and deliberate, unhurried, as the soundgrows louder with each step. Whoever is coming isn’t trying to be quiet. They aren’t in a rush, either.
I force myself to calm, focusing on my breathing even as my heart slams against my ribs. The door opens.
Light spills in from the hall, cutting through the dimness as a figure steps into the room and brings the outside world with him.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, built like someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be taken seriously. He pauses just inside the doorway, saying nothing, giving nothing away as his gaze moves over me.
One of his hands is wrapped in white gauze, the fabric already shadowed where it’s bled through, like he forgot it was there.
There’s no hunger in his eyes or cruelty. Just assessment. Like I’m a problem he’s deciding how to solve.
I meet his stare head-on, refusing to let him see fear even as my pulse hammers.
“Untie me,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the burn in my throat.
He lifts a brow, faintly curious. “Untie you?”
“Yeah. You heard me.” I tug against the restraints, ignoring the sting at my wrists. “Unless you’re afraid of a little girl.”
Something like amusement flickers across his face before it disappears. He folds his arms, unhurried.
“I’ll untie you,” he says calmly. “If you can cooperate.”
“Cooperate?” I scoff. “You can go fuck yourself.”
He doesn’t react. He turns toward the door as if the decision has already been made.
“Suit yourself,” he says. “I’ll come back.”
“Wait—”
The door closes before I can finish.
